


worship like a dog

by komet



Series: tell me you love me with a knife to my throat [2]
Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Far Cry 4 Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Unhealthy Relationships, post sabal victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komet/pseuds/komet
Summary: Because for as long as Sabal continued to build his shrine of bullets and blood and those green fucking eyes, Ajay would worship until there was nothing left.
Relationships: Ajay Ghale/Sabal
Series: tell me you love me with a knife to my throat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880359
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	worship like a dog

**Author's Note:**

> i start and don't finish an unfortunate amount of drabbles about ajay, who i love very dearly. this is part of one of the surviving pieces, taken from a much larger narrative that won't come to completion. oops

_He was right._

Ajay’s ears were ringing as he finally, finally stumbled into his house. He didn’t know from what. The shelling at Utkarsh, perhaps, or getting bashed in the head with a rifle at Pagan’s Fortress, or the shriek of rockets or the constant fucking gunfire. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered, because it was finally over and _he was right, he was right,_ _he was right_.

Ajay Ghale entered Kyrat a good man. Far from perfect, but honest and humble and _good_. He came buzzing with nervous excitement, clutching what was left of his mother close to his chest, swearing to himself that he would repay her all of the love she’d given him. That was supposed to be it. Come to Kyrat, find Lakshmana, go home. 

The adrenaline was sapping out of his body, finally. It had been all of seven days, the worst week of his life, and he had scarcely slept for two hours during the whole of it. There was too much, too soon, too fast, and he rolled with the punches while he could, but now the weight of it brought him to his knees. His legs simply gave, and he hit the floor, hands splaying out against the old wood. He felt frail and sick and weak, thin breaths shuddering from his chest as his exhausted mind spun with the ferocity of a wildfire. 

Paul, Noore, Yuma. Dead, dead, dead. 

Amita, gone into the night. Too far, too late, to ask for her help, to beg her forgiveness. Would it make a difference? Would he still feel like this, if he chose _her?_ If he hadn’t thrown himself so far into that cavern of raven black hair and demanding lips and rough hands growing increasingly cold and gotten _lost_ there. Would it change a single thing?

_No,_ something livid snarled from the very depths of his being, and his entire body shook. With grief, maybe. _No, because he was right._

Pagan was gone. Not dead, no. Ajay couldn’t do it. Maybe he never could, despite being so sure for so long that that was the end-all: kill Pagan Min, and the nightmare would end. Only, the trouble was and had always been that, it didn’t begin with him. Ajay was, and now would always be the nightmare himself. A killer, murderer, butcher of men. War had stolen him away like a thief in the night, and now it had left him for dead. Pagan knew that.

A raw, all-consuming wave of _something_ , of feeling, surged and crested in him with all the tenderness of a bullet between the eyes. Tears filled his own for the first time in a long time, too long for him to still feel human, and a dull sob clawed its way up his throat with a fiercely resounding ache. His chest tightened, a set of metal jaws clamping down on his lungs, and forced him to gasp and choke like a drowning man. 

_Mom,_ was what managed to dredge itself up from the swirling fog of his mind, desperate and betrayed and so worn down, _why? Why would you send me here to die? Why would you do this to me?_

Ajay crumpled the rest of the way to the floor, hot tears stinging his eyes, burning his face. For a moment, he could pretend that it was blood. He was shaking so hard that he thought he might throw up and everything was hurting, everything was stained in brilliant shades of red, his hands were itching with dried blood that would never, ever wash away. 

Eventually -- minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell -- Sabal’s voice crackled over the radio. He sounded so . . . what? There was emotion in his voice, and it wasn’t anger, or disappointment, or righteous fury. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was victory, if ever that could be a feeling rather than some abstract Hail Mary. 

“Kyrat’s free, brother,” he said, sounding like he was smiling. It had been so long since he’d seen Sabal smile, which was an odd thing to realize while he was shuddering on the floor, nearly unconscious. It made his chest ache anyway.

“Mohan’s at rest too now, because of you.” Mohan was a murderer. Tore his family apart before it could begin. Took everything from Ajay under the pretense of giving him the world. 

“Come on home.” Where? _To you?_

“I could use a second-in-command.” An executioner, you mean.

Ajay said nothing in response, because he didn’t need to. Sabal had asked something of him, but as most things were with him, it wasn’t a request. It could be, but they both know that Ajay would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. It was, ultimately, what brought him here, feeling like a dying animal with its bloody entrails spilling through broken ribs. 

And the worst part was, it didn’t change a single thing, because for as long as Sabal continued to build his shrine of bullets and blood and those green fucking eyes, Ajay would worship until there was nothing left.


End file.
